Clue and Note
by Katherine-E-Kora
Summary: Following the murder of three girls in a late 1800's Whitechapel, London, detective Ralph Brimmly and his partners Simon Douglass and Jack Merridew head up the case. However, they quickly find that all is not as it seems...and catching the killer may be harder than it sounded. Followed closely by friend Roger, reporter Bill, American Maurice, and Scarlet, the crimes may never end..
1. Detective Ralph Brimmly

CLUE AND NOTE

RECORD ONE: Detective Ralph Brimmly

It was about 1888 I think...no, maybe the year before...when the greatest crime of the century took place. You know this story, right?"

The child beside the man speaking shook his head profusely.

"Ah! What a treat this'll be then." He laughed darkly, "You've not been poisoned yet with society's version. Son, what I'm about to tell you is the _real_ story. Absolutely true and unadulterated. The story of Jack-The-Ripper. You ready?"

"Yes." The boy piped.

"Alright, alright." The man smiled faintly. He paused to think for a moment, then: "It all began when Ralph Brimmly-he was the detective at the time-was assigned to the case. Or, at least, that's where I'm starting, kid. Because, let me tell you, that's where the _real_ fun began..."

* * *

-DETECTIVE RALPH BRIMMLY-

The music was loud.

Too loud.

"-So the deal is," The chief of police-a beer-bellied, stout, half-balding man-speiled on as he shoved another forkful of food in his mouth, "We've got a critical situation here, Brimmly. Between the gaurds around the queen and calls from paranoid chaps and dames in the tired hours, we can't keep up. We can't spare any more young lads on this case. I was hoping you might be able to...clear things up a bit. I need this case solved, Brimmly. you're the best I know."

Ralph Brimmly stared intensely into the glass on the table before him. The dim, swaying lights of the back-alley, downtown club illuminated his reflection in the darkened tea within it. He looked...nearly bored. But this was merely a mask. In truth, this was his thinking face. Detective Brimmly's bright blue eyes flicked up. He removed his hand from his chin and took the glass in his hand, twirling it instinctively.

"You think you can handle it?" the police chief asked.

"I think I'll have to." Brimmly grinned sloppily, "The Ripper, huh?"

"Yes-ser-ee."

"This should be fun."

"No doubt."

The detective pushed aside his tea and lifted himself from his chair, adjusting his cap with a frown. He'd been at this club too long for his own liking. He was just about to say so when:

"Oh, and," The captain stirred, "I forgot to mention, there'll be two others working with you. From your department. You three should all be well acquainted."

Ralph's frown grew deeper underneath the long shadow of his brown-and-plaid cap. "Who?"

"That information-file lad...What's his name..."

"Private Simon Douglass?" Ralph offered, curious and hopeful at the same time. Simon was a young boy, not yet eighteen, but he was bright and eager to learn. He looked up to Ralph, so it wouldn't be that hard to mold him into a helpful side-kick.

"Yes, him." The chief mumbled around more food, "And...detective Merridew as well."

"Oh."

"Mm."

"Well then." Brimmly sighed, running a hand through his tangle of light-blonde hair, "I'd better get going and round them up."

"Quite." The chief agreed, "Thanks Brimmly. You have no idea how much I owe you one."

"Pick up my tab maybe?" Ralph chuckled sarcastically, shoving his hands at last in their rightful place; the pockets on his long coat. With his chin, he gestured to his half-drained tea cup. The chief laughed heartily.

"It's coming out of your paycheck."

"Yeah, I thought so. Be seeing you."

"Same."

Briskly, Ralph pushed through the bustling, late-afternoon crowd of the 'pub n' club' and made his way outside. He had to screw up his eyes even in the shade of his hat as the light from the sun flooded his vision. In his mind, detective Ralph Brimmly drew up a map of the backstreets. Whitechapel London was pretty busy this time of year, he thought to himself. It was probably better to steer clear of the main cobble-roads. But, which way was the quickest to get to the headquarters? In accordance to his mental-map, he veered into a shaded alley-way lined with backwater apartments and fell into a well-metered step. This, like his expression of earlier, was a sign of thinking. Inside his brain, the cogs began to turn.

He thought mostly about the case. What evidence had there been so far that he'd heard about? A few photographs of mutilated corpses surfaced immediately, splaying themselves out in his mind as if being thrown onto a kitchen table. The crime scenes he knew pretty modestly. No witnesses...as far as he knew. He'd have to do a call for those. Maybe he could offer a reward for any that testified. In all honesty, detective Brimmly hadn't been following the case all that closely. He'd heard snippets of conversation and been curious about it, but got caught up in other things. Serial killings of prostitutes...organs missing from the crime-scene...how strange! He wouldn't have thought of it in a million years. That given, he was also no criminal.

All too soon, Ralph found himself at the steps of the Yard headquarters. It was a shame, too. Ralph really had needed to think in peace a bit longer before talking to the two strange figures he had been assigned with...even Simon...buffoons. They were totally and utterly round the bend. Batty. Wacco. Bonkers beyond all belief. With a sigh he jogged up the stone stairs and pushed through the doors. Inside the newly-furnished building, it was stuffy and slightly warmer than the outdoors and the early-autumn weather. Brimmly tossed his cap and coat on the rack by the doorway and turned the first corner. It opened up into a smallish room with large glass windows and a multitude of bookshelves lining the walls-filled to bursting and ordered alphabetically. The detective grimaced at the two people leaning over his desk, arguing heatedly.

"There has to be a motive!"

"But what if there's not?!"

"Then he's either A: a psychopath, or B: stupid!"

"Well, he's obviously not either of those, considering how calculated these appear to be..."

"So there is a motive then!"

"Not necessarily!"

"How in the bloody-!"

"-Mates!" Ralph snapped, alerting them both to his presence, "Come on now! Act like full-grown adults!"

The shorter of the two quarrelers shot up from where he was previously slouching, straightening his back and folding his hands behind it. "Detective!" He squeaked, "We were just talking about the case, ser!"

Ralph quirked an eyebrow and joined them around his desk, glancing over the photographs quickly, some of which he'd never seen before. "So I heard." He mumbled, then louder, "You can drop the formalities by the way, Simon. Haven't you heard, we're all working together."

"Yes, but that by no means qualifies me, an inferior Yardsman, to step out of line like that and call you by-"

"Oh, shut it, Si." The other boy, a lanky, hot-headed ginger, smirked, "Stop kissing arse and just listen already."

"Merridew-"

"There was a motive, by the way, I just know it." Jack Merridew added as an after-thought.

"There doesn't have to be!"

"Hey!" Ralph snapped his fingers in each of their faces once and drew their attention back to himself. He gave them an angry look and gestured to his desk, where the evidence sat, "We've got work to do, you two! No don't make me request for you both to transfer! I'll make sure you both get demoted!"

"Yes, ser." Simon Douglass glanced down, crestfallen. The other detective, the vibrant Jack Merridew, scowled and stepped closer to the table with Ralph. He fingered the edge of a black-and-white photograph and started to speak.

"We just got this in before you arrived, Ralph." He commented, "What do you think?"

Ralph took it in wholly. Jack went on as he did so, pointing out different things.

"There's been threee so far, at least what we've documented. There could be more by the end of the day with the way that this is going. I'll tell you, it's not going north, chap." Jack gestured to a few photographs of dead women, stabbed and mutilated beyond recognition. Some of the older ones were familiar. Most of them were not. "There's Annie Millwood, admitted to an infirmary after being stabbed in the legs, arms, etcetera. She died in early March. Then there's Ada Wilson, there, she died near the same time. Almost the same type of wounds. All knife stabs. Ada was alive for a while, but we haven't heard from her. She's either out of the country, or dead as a doornail. Then, there's the new one..."

"What do you mean?" Ralph Brimmly grimaced. His eyes flickered to the last few photos. He picked one up and studied it carefully. Meanwhile, Simon had joined them and picked up where Jack had left off.

"Mary Ann Nichols." He piped in, "Murdered just yesterday, ser. On Buck's Road. There were two slices in her throat, and a deep cut in her abdomen...And...the organs were damaged."

"Who has the body now?" Ralph questioned, sliding the photos away to reveal the reports underneath.

"Local undertaker." Jack answered, "I've already looked into it, and it's no use going to see her. Anything that's happened to it is right here in the reports, Ralph."

"Go visit anyway." Ralph ordered, "just you. And be thorough."

"Weren't you listening?" Jack snapped, "It's already been taken care of! Why do I have to go do it again?"

"Because." Ralph answered plainly, "Someone always missed something. Now, get to it. Me and Si are going to check out the crime scene. Any of us still there?"

"Yeah." Simon sighed wearily, "Crawling with the local Yard. We'll have to have our badges to even get anywhere close."

"Good. that means the public hasn't gotten to it yet."

"Yeah, but it also means that they've trampled over everything, ser." Simon mentioned, "Do you really think there's something there?"

Ralph pondered this for a moment, still staring intently at the papers he held in his hand. His eyes scanned the page for anything useful. Nothing of interest, really. He didn't know why he bothered. But, there had to be something. Criminals like this didn't just disappear of the radar for a few days or weeks or even months without leaving a trace. There was bound to be a finger print, a paper trail, a blood stain from a struggle...anything. Anything was helpful at this point. At least, if they all wanted to get paid.

"I sure do hope so, Douglass." Ralph Brimmly huffed tiredly. He set the papers back on the table and glanced at his meager crew. This was all he would have to solve this case...and it was probably not going to be enough...still, he could hope. "Now, let's go. We're wasting time just standing around here."

Ralph and Simon parted ways with Jack at Fournier Street and continued on to the crime-scene on Buck's. They went on foot; it was less of a hassle than tracking down a horse-and-buggy and would probably be quicker in the long run anyway. (the first car wouldn't be invented for almost 30 years, you know. It was quite the strange world compared to what you know, kid.)

They arrived at the busy, roped-off alley in the late afternoon. Eager or worried or curious common-folk milled about nearby, never approaching the dreaded velvet line, but watching carefully for any breakthrough all the same. Ralph and Simon pushed through with ease, flashing their badges whenever need be. This usually warded off the pesky town-person, as no one wanted arrested these days. Nearest to the rope line, a black shroud hung about the scene, not swaying with the hungry gossiping voices or the push and shove of the throng of officers beyond her. Detective Brimmly tapped her on the shoulder when she didn't move and flashed his ID promptly.

"We're with the Yard, madam." He announced, "I'm afraid you'll have to leave. We're clearing the premises for a while. I like to work in peace and quiet, you see..."

The woman in black half-turned and fixed him with an acutely solemn and sad green-eyed stare. He frowned and noted her features. A tuft of bright scarlet hair had fallen from her cloak and curled down onto her forehead. Her features, or what was showing of them, were very fine and pretty.

"I'm sorry, officer." She mumbled, "I'll be off, then."

"Were you related to the victim?" Ralph asked reflexively. At his side, Simon Douglass pulled out a pen and paper and started to jot something down with a practiced hand.

"Yes." She said, prouder, "Sister. I was just about to come for a visit when I got the news...the name's Scarlet, by the way."

"Last name?" Simon queried. Scarlet glanced at him strangely for a moment before answering once more:

"Just Scarlet."

"Oh."

'Okay." Ralph pulled out a little card from his pocket and handed it to her deftly. "If you remember anything useful-"

"-I'll stop by." She cut him off, taking the card from his hand. "G'day...detective."

"G'day."

From there, Ralph and Simon ducked under the rope and joined the small band of bustling officers on the other side. The crouched near a single spot on the pavement, some blood-stains, some yellow cards with numbers on them. Detective Brimmly nodded to them, flipping open his badge just slightly. A few of them nodded back, and went back to work. Ralph adjusted his cap in thought. It's a good thing he put it on before he left. He didn't like being outside without it.

"My name's Detective Ralph Brimmly." He introduced himself to the Yard. They looked up at him expectantly. "I stopped by to snoop around a bit. You chaps pick up anything new lately?"

The head officer stepped forward from the group and took Ralph's hand in his own, shaking it hard. He was a middle-aged man by the looks of him, his lip hiding behind the fur of a thick, clean-looking moustache. "Nice to meet you, detective." He cordially greeted, "We got a tip from the chief that you might be stopping down here sometime or later."

"Aha. The man knows me well, I must say." Ralph smiled.

"There's a reason he's at the top." The officer agreed, then he shook Simon's hand and lead them across the scene, transforming into their own personal tour-guide for the murder scene.

"So, anything new?" Simon repeated Ralph's earlier question doggedly.

"Nope, afraid not, boys." The officer sighed. Ralph glanced at his nametag, cataloguing it for later. Willoughby. Thomas James Willoughby. "We've been combing the lot all day, and we haven't got a thing to show for it."

"Shame." Ralph drily huffed.

"Sure is." Thomas Willoughby said, licking his lips, "You would swear the culprit was a ghost, at times."

"Maybe he is?" Simon joked. Nobody laughed. Ralph shot him a look of warning. "Sorry."

"Oh well...We'll have a look around anyway." Ralph announced. "Thanks for showing us in, Officer Willoughby."

"No problem. Shout if you need anything."

"Got it."

* * *

"Did they find anything?" The boy asked curiously.

"No." The storyteller-man answered quickly, "Not a thing. But Jack did."

"Can we just jump to that part then?" The boy sighed, "I don't want to listen to this all night, dad, it's boring."

"It's not boring." The man insisted, "It's history. History is never boring."

"...whatever." The boy puffed, "Just get on with it...I could be doing something else, you know..."

"Oh, come on." The man flicked the boy's nose affectionately and went on, "Okay, Jack...let's see...Oh, yes! Jack went to the Undertaker's...if my memory's correct. He lived down the street from your great-aunt. Now when Jack got to undertaker Stoddard's, he was very surprised to see that the body was already waiting for him..."

* * *

**YO! I'M ALIVE, YOU GUYS! So, did you miss me? Did you? DID YOU?!**

**yeah, I thought not...**

**ANYWHO, I'm back from hiatus. I got a new computer, so I should be updating again in a regular fashion. *does funny dance* Yup. I'm going to update everything pretty soon. However, I'm taking this week to write this little doo-dad. It's a break and something fresh to get me back in the rhythm of things. A five-shot mystery about the Ripper. How do you like it, huh? Pls tell me things...**

**So, thanks for reading, guys! I appreciate you all putting up with me for this long! Pls read and review and blah blah blah. **

**WRITE YOU TOMORROW! I HOPE YOU ALL LOOK FORWARD TO THE NEXT INSTALLATION OF: CLUE AND NOTE!**

**Ps...and yes, it is the inspiration-baby of Shinee's song. Though, I've never actually looked up the English lyrics...probably should do that sometime soon...hm.**

**TO FANGA: **

**have fun in freaking UTAH, looking at hills and trees and crap. hope all your wildest vacation-dreams come true, man. ALL OF THEM.**


	2. Detective Jack Merridew

CLUE AND NOTE

RECORD TWO: DETECTIVE JACK MERRIDEW

Now, when Jack arrived at the local undertaker's place, mister Stoddard, he was very surprised to find that the body was already out and waiting for him on one of the slabs. Mr. Stoddard, a rather bright and bouncy person for his occupation, snapped right to it and lead him along without even asking for any sort of identification. It's a wonder he gets any work done around this place, Jack thought scornfully, and another wonder that the body hasn't been stolen. Though, what somebody would ever want with a body was beyond him. Especially with it being as damaged as it was.

"Jolly good to see you, detective!" Stoddard crooned dotingly, "You know, I don't very much get company around here! Any person at all is a welcome sight...as long as they're living, that is. I've seen plenty of dead, all types..."

"Yeah, sure." Jack brushed him off, "Just show me the bloody body so I can get out of this place."

"As you desire." The undertaker granted. He proceeded to lead Jack behind a curtain into the autopsy room. Many bodies lay out on concrete or wooden slabs, rotting and suffering terribly from Rigor Mortis. Jack Merridew wrinkled his nose. He's always hated that smell, and no matter how long he worked on the force, he didn't think he'd ever get used to it. They both stopped at a covered body, splayed out in the center slab of the room. Assorted tools were set out on a tray beside it. Stoddard gestured to the body and smiled something grisly.

"She came here last night...she's awfully beautiful, don't you know." He purred.

"Get out of my face, Stoddard." Jack brushed off, pulling back the sheet the undertaker had lain over the body, "I need to work in peace."

"...As you desire, detective." The undertaker bowed and took his leave, back to the storefront area of his little place. Detective Merridew braced himself and glanced over Mary Ann Nichols' body.

In short, it was not a pretty or welcome sight. Her mouth had been picked at the edges with a sharp blade, as had the neck and abdomen. The neck appeared to be smiling at him doubly, dried red with a light lather of congealed blood that hadn't yet been cleaned off. There were some superficial wounds on the arms and legs that may have taken place after the death. Or, maybe they happened before. How was one to know for sure? The slice on the upper abdomen was deep and peeled away, revealing the mutilated organs underneath. Everything was pale and sickly. Jack gagged and started analyzing.

From the reports, she'd been found dead at around 3:30...maybe 3:40-ish. Jack pulled out an electric torch and waved it a bit in front of the open eyes, brown and tinted grotesque colors with rot. He tucked it away a moment later. He didn't know in the first place what good it would do, anyway.

"Who killed you?" He whispered to Mary meaningfully, "If only you could tell me...this would make my job so much easier..."

The body of Mary Nichols did not reply. She stared up, unseeing, at the browning ceiling. The red-head followed her gaze, as if she were staring at something. But, as expected, there was nothing. Nothing but the light, swaying gently from the people walking around in the apartment above. Probably the undertaker's wife.

Jack wondered briefly about this woman's family. She'd been a prostitute, like all of the other victims, so she probably didn't have a husband or any other close relations. He sighed in frustration.

Curiously, he looked back down at the body. Merridew pulled his coat sleeves over his hands so that he wouldn't come into direct contact with it. Then, he prodded at the wounds in her stomach and neck tentatively, grimacing. "Euwgh...gross..." He pulled away and shook out his coat sleeve, coughing. That's when he realized it.

Brown eyes. Mary had brown eyes, and somewhere in the reports he'd seen that the other victims had them too. Was that a connection? If so, then there could be a motive after all...Haha! And that meant Jack Merridew had been right! Simon was wrong, he was right, and that's all that mattered. Jack snorted disdainfully and stood triumphantly over the body.

"See, look there." He scoffed, poking at the air around the body with an outstretched finger, "That wasn't so hard now, was it, Mary?"

Again, she didn't answer.

"You quite done in here?" The undertaker popped in through the curtain once more, smiling widely. Jack turned to him, pulling the cover back over the body.

"Yeah, Stoddard." Jack responded indignantly. "I'll be leaving now."

"G'day then, Detective!"

"Yeah, G'day. Have fun munging about with the bodies...or whatever you do with these things."

"Will do."

* * *

After meeting up with Simon and Ralph back at the station, then reporting his findings, Jack was released from his duties and allowed to go home. The conclusions from his search of the body were put on file, and Ralph had said he would take them into consideration. Tomorrow they would need to compile a list of all the brown-eyed prostitutes in the district of Whitechapel.

Oh, joy.

Jack really hated this case. Not only was it extremely complicated and full of research-work, but Ralph was at the head of it. Why couldn't the chief trust him to be in charge of an investigation every once and a while? He sighed and knocked on his apartment door. Nobody answered. Either his roommates weren't home, or they were ignoring him. It was very highly probable that the latter was happening in this instance. Although, there was that one time when they'd all gone to the pub and forgot to leave the door unlocked.

"Come on, mates!" Jack shouted to the wooden door, "Open up! I know you can hear me!"

"Coming!" A muffled voice said back. A moment later, the door was unlatched and a crazy-haired boy with large grey eyes appeared in the crack of it. He smiled toothily. "Jack! We thought you'd never come home! You missed stew."

"Great." Jack huffed, "That's just what I wanted to hear, Maurice."

"No problem." The boy, Maurice, grinned, "It was gross anyway."

Jack Merridew shrugged off his coat and draped it across the ratty couch, then moved into the kitchen and started preparing something for himself to eat. A glass of milk, some oats. Nothing big. He wasn't that hungry anyway, he just liked to make a fuss about it.

"Where's Roger and Bill?" The red-head asked in passing.

Maurice vaulted over the countertop and perched there, watching Merridew make food with undecided interest for a while before responding. When Jack Merridew saw him sitting there, he scowled. Based on Maurice's manners, he could honestly say that Americans were slobs. Ever since the crazy-haired boy had landed on shore, he'd been spilling out the contents of their fridge and sitting on their countertops. He couldn't wait until the exchange program or whatever was over.

"You just missed Bill." Maurice mused, "He went out to do some reporting or something...took that giant-arse camera with him, so he's not gonna be back for a while."

"Ah." Merridew said, moving to the drawer to retrieve a spoon. He plopped it into his bowl. Bill McCallohan was perhaps Jack's least obstructive roommate, though he insisted on rummaging through everything in the apartment, even things that weren't his. At least it was to be expected. He was a reporter after all. And the best one in Whitechapel, at that. "And What about Roger?"

"The usual." Maurice grinned wider, "He's at Merrin's."

"Should I leave the house tonight just in case he decides to bring it home with him?"

"I don't know, but if worse comes to worse, take me with you."

Jack snorted and shoved a spoonful of food in his mouth. "Bill had the right idea."

"Got that right, brother." Maurice chuckled.

Merrin's was a nearby club. Lot's of girls. Lot's of business.

"So, I heard you got dumped with the Ripper Case, huh?" Maurice mentioned teasingly.

"Don't mention it." Jack rolled his eyes, "That case is awful. I can't wait until the chief lets us drop it."

"You just got it though, didn't you?" Maurice exclaimed, leaning forward a bit on the counter top. In squeaked in protest, and leaned a bit with him. Jack threw it a questioning glance, and responded:

"Yeah, but it's old. It's been on the table since March."

"Oh!" Maurice gasped, "That's a long time for something like that, don't you think?"

"Hm. I guess. But, It's pretty serious. I was thinking of asking Bill for some help. He solved that case down in Hackney, didn't he?" Jack queried.

"Yeah, I suppose." Maurice pondered, "But, I think he's been on it on his own already for a while now, Jack. You should ask him about it or something. You know how crazy he is about his photos. He'll do anything to get the shot. If he hasn't caught the perpetrator on film already, he will if you ask him."

"I will when he gets back." Jack Merridew glanced down into his bowl. It was empty and picked clean, dry as a bone. He tossed it in the sink along with the spoon, drained his milk-glass, and let it join the other china in the graveyard; otherwise known as the sink. It's where all the nasty, cracked, never-to-be-cleaned dishes went. Nobody in the apartment ever did them. They just ended up buying new ones at the end of every week. It cost a fortune, but they were all too lazy to care. "I think, for now, I'm going to fetch Roger. I don't want him dragging home any tricks tonight. I'm tired."

"Yeah. Good thinking."

"Be right back."

"Cool."

Jack Merridew exited the building the same way he'd come in, leaving the door unlocked behind him.

* * *

"Have you seen my pal Roger Wirrick anywhere?" Jack leaned over the bar counter-top in the sweaty club-house and practically shouted over to the bar-tend right in front of him. "He's kind of tall...scary looking...red eyes, you know? Comes here nearly everyday, Darla. Can't miss him."

Darla, the bar-tend, glanced at Jack Merridew in contempt and answered: "And what do I owe you?"

"I'm his roommate. I'm with the Yard." Jack flashed his badge grandly, smirking sarcastically at the ever-distasteful Darla. "Detective Jack Merridew. I'm taking him in for questioning." Okay, so the last part was a lie, but it really wasn't _that_ far from the truth.

Darla jerked her meaty finger over to the next room. "Over that way."

"Thanks." Jack hissed sweetly, making sure to lace his tone with venom enough for her. He really didn't like this place. It was filled with sleazy and scandalous looking figures, much too many even for him. He much preferred the club across the street. He wished Roger would hang out there more.

Choking down the urge to just yell for him, Jack moved through the club, slithering past couples and bustling waitress-girls like a cobra. He went to the designated room and squinted to get a glimpse of his surroundings. A stage pre-dominated the large place, lit with red floor-lights and decked with girls. He sighed and moved around to a table near the front, where a familiar black head of hair was outlined by the scarlet tints of the fluorescence.

"Hey, Roger." Jack whispered to him menacingly. Right over the shoulder, so he wouldn't be to conspicuous. He didn't want people at this club to know him, just in case the Yard ever did a bust here. That given, he did just announce his presence to the bar-tender...agh. He'd deal with that later, maybe get her fired or something. She could have a criminal record, if he wrote it in somewhere...

"Jack." Roger greeted congenially, quietly, through a toothy smile. "What are you doing here, chap? They've got clothes on, if you haven't noticed. I was just scoping out the place for you...for good measure."

"Come back home, or I'll arrest you and everyone in here." Jack warned.

"Fine, ma." Roger blew out a breath. Jack noticed for the first time how thick and wispy it was, and chanced swatting downwards in front of Roger's face. His intuition had been correct. The cigarette pattered to the floor in ashes and hissed out. "You just ruin all the fun, ay?"

"Yeah, and you have to enjoy illegal activities."

"This isn't illegal."

"Fine." Jack admitted, "Just get home. Come on, now. I'm exhausted, and I don't want to be caught up on what you're doing all night long. Let's go."

"Yeah, yeah." Roger stood up and dusted himself off, brushing past Jack on his way out, "I don't need to hold your hand, Merridew."

Jack watched him go in anger, then turned back curiously to the stage. He stared for a moment, shook his head, and followed after with a brisk walk. Maybe, on a better day, he would have come here with all the boys. Maybe, on the day the batty chief of police dropped this bloody case, he'd come here with them all again to celebrate.

* * *

The next day, at the Yard's offices:

"I have an idea." Jack offered to Simon and Ralph, as they still mulled over the idea of the motive. What if the murderer had a mother he particularly hated who had brown eyes? Or...a prostituted sister? Who knows.

"Shoot." Ralph sighed, "I'm for anything. This has me stumped. I'm not sure which direction to take next."

"I still think we should look over the crime scene again...or maybe find that Scarlet girl..." Simon trailed off, "She seemed to know something."

"I think," Jack suggested, "We should find ourselves some bait."

"What do you mean?" Ralph asked curiously. Simon cocked his head to the side, sending his too-big hat askew and his dark-auburn hair across his face.

"We need someone on the inside, someone who might know the killer, and someone who definitely had connections to the victims." Jack drabbled on, striding over to a bookshelf and picking one off the top. He flipped through it in disinterest. "We need to hire a prostitute."

"We're the Yard. We follow rules, we don't break them." Ralph warned. Simon's mouth curved into a lopsided, confused frown.

"It's a start at something." Jack growled.

"It's illegal." Ralph said through clenched teeth. "We're trying to arrest the ripper, not ourselves."

"Didn't the chief say we could pull out all the stops, though!" Jack shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. The tome he'd been rifling through flew backwards as it slipped from his fingers, landing in a crumpled-looking heap on the wooden floor. "We need to do whatever it takes to solve this stupid thing!"

"But it's against the rules!"

"But it's worth a try!"

"I think," Simon piped in, effectively halting their fighting They both glared at him, and he shrunk back, only to speak in a softer voice, "It might be a good idea..just to try."

"I'll call one up, then." Jack smirked triumphantly, throwing his best look at Ralph. The blonde only growled and adjusted his cap on his head, shrugging up his shoulders.

"Nobody ever listens to me..." He muttered angrily, "Who's in charge of this investigation, anyway? Certainly not me...oh, wait, I forgot...I am!"

"Oh, shut it, tight-trousers." Jack teased, "My idea was a stroke of brilliance, just admit it!"

"I'm not going to." Ralph grumbled.

"Fine, but we're going with it anyway." Jack grinned, "Right, head-detective Brimmly?"

"Sure. Call up your bloody tricks, mate." Ralph puffed, resigned, "I'll make sure I'm all up-to-date on my medical work."

"Ser, I don't think that'll be necessary." Simon Douglass frowned, "She's just for the investigation."

"Yeah, I know." Ralph responded, "But it never hurts to be careful."

Jack leaned against the molding on the door and prodded Ralph as he walked by. The blonde stopped, upset and curious as to what the hell the red-head could want now.

"By the way," Jack mentioned, "You know Bill McCallohan?"

"Yeah." Ralph mumbled, "He helped us solve that murder case in Hackney. What of him? Wait, ain't he your room-mate?"

Jack nodded in response and added: "Mmhm. And he's offered to help us on this case. He's already been on it, according to what I heard of him this morning. What do you think?"

"As long as he corresponds with us every now and then and doesn't get himself killed." The blonde said. without another word to Jack Merridew, he paced down the long hallway and went around to the water closet. With a sigh, he collapsed against the door as it shut and ran a hand through his tangled mess of blonde hair.

"This is bullocks." He whispered to the thin air, blinking once and smiling weakly, "I sure hope those two know what in the bloody hell they're opening here."

* * *

"A can o' worms, that's what." The man laughed, "But, you know, that's what being a officer was about back then, kid."

The boy on the bed looked indignant. "But da, aren't you a cop?"

"Yes, son, but I wasn't always."

"Okay, so what happened next?"

"Oh, so you're curious now, are you? Well," The man grinned widely, "They were right on calling a prostitute to help them, kid. But, you know who it was that they ended up calling?"

"Who?" The kid asked.

"Scarlet!" The man snapped his fingers, "Scarlet was the one. They hadn't even known it, but Jack's suggestion had maybe been the most helpful thing in that entire case!"

"Really?!"

"Yes." The man sighed, "And that wasn't all else. As I told you, Bill had started to officially work on the Ripper Case, and Maurice naturally followed him around like a madman. Those two caused a lot of trouble...but also, a whole heck of a lot of good..."

* * *

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	3. Reporter Bill McCallohan(And Maurice)

CLUE AND NOTE

RECORD THREE: Free-Lance Reporter Bill McCallohan and his Free-_loader_ Friend Maurice Whittaker

"Would you be willing to go official with the Ripper Case, Bill?" Jack had asked him earlier that day, after the young, free-lance reporter had walked in the door from a long night's work, lugging his massive camera case with him.

"Of course." Bill had answered in his normal, monotone voice. Jack couldn't have guessed how excited he was. Of course. Why would he ever turn down the offer? He'd been as batty as a dog after its own tail since that case had been released publicly, and even battier when nobody came forward and hired him to chase after the damn thing. The Yard was exactly the kind of client he hoped for. With it came unlimited access to crime scenes, a complete list of potential culprits and autopsy reports. The potential to be behind that iron curtain that was the British police force was an irresistible kind of pull for someone like Bill McCallohan. Now all he had to do was better clean that big lug of a camera and enlist some help of his own. But who would work for free...paid in thrills?

He was a helluva lucky man, knowing an all-too-eager American.

"Maurice." He flatly, quickly said. Bill didn't even spare the crazy-haired lad a glance. "I need you to-"

"-YAY!"

"I haven't even told you what you're doing yet."

"I don't care!" Maurice cheered on, "I've been bored for weeks! Is it something cool?"

"Life is on the line." Bill went on, unmoved as ever, "Is that '_cold_' enough for you..._broseph_?"

"It's a crook, ain't it!" Maurice gasped in unhidden excitement, swaying from one foot to the other and jabbing at the stale, muggy, apartment air with his fists. If it had been a person, he might have bruised it up a little. "Let me at 'em!"

"Sure thing." Bill consented, "Now follow me. And try not to be too loud, 'kay?"

"Yes, ser." Maurice whispered, strained and theatric, and clung to Bill's shoulder in an awkward sort of way. Bill didn't show it, but internally he was rolling his eyes.

_This might prove a bit stranger than I'm used to_, He logged in mentally, _I just hope I don't turn as crackers as he is before this is all over_.

Without another word, they both grabbed their slickers and headed out the door.

* * *

contrary to Maurice's all-to-eager suggestions, Bill refused to allow either of their faces be marred with the presence of sunglasses. They would have served no purpose whatsoever. It wasn't even sunny out, but it was actually quite cloudy and nearly raining. They would not look 'cool' or 'cold' or be like the 'cat's pajamas' or whatever his strange American friend threw at him. They would just be distracting and a dead-giveaway to any suspicious person-of-interest. On another note, what was with all Maurice's wacky sayings anyway? Did cats wear pajamas? What did said pajamas look like? Such questions as these plagued Bill's mind incessantly as they briskly strode through the back alleys on the way to the Yard headquarters for information. He was starting to contemplate interviewing a passing cat when they finally arrived at their destination. Maurice skidded to a stop and pointed extravagantly.

"Yard a-ho!" He declared. Bill paid no mind, and instead walked past his ridiculous accomplice and into the building.

"Hullo." He announced to no one in particular before making his way into detective Brimmly's office. He was not surprised at all to find Brimmly missing and young Simon douglass in his place. All of them had been well-acquainted before, on a previous case, and Bill tipped his head as a courtesy when he entered. Simon did the same, waving him forward.

"Hullo, Mr. McCallohan!" Simon greeted loudly from the desk. Bill sat down in a nearby chair and studied the bookshelves around him in interest. Had he more time, he might have gone through a few tomes. "Jack told me that you would come here earlier! You just missed him and Ralph. They went down with Scarlet to the nearby alleys and Brothels. They're have'n a good walk and talk with her. She's telling what she knows, and we tell what we know."

"Scarlet?" Bill asked flatly.

"Oh, yeah." Simon laughed breathily, "I forgot, you've just got on now...um, Scarlet's a prostitute...Mary Ann's sister."

Bill frowned. He would've liked to have been here when she was. Being late had cost him a valuable source of intelligence. Oh well. He could cope with his inward and dismal misery later. For now, he would just have to be content with the material given.

Following this line of though, he queried: "Do you happen to have any leads so far?"

"Leads?" Simon repeated. "What kind of stuff are you looking for?"

"_Modus operando_."

"Hm. Let me see." Simon buried himself momentarily in a manila filing folder, then drew out a few sheets of paper and offered them to Bill and Maurice, who was currently hovering over the back of Bill's chair. Bill crossed his legs and took the offering, placing a hand under his chin as he glanced over it.

"An angry person...or rather, quick to anger...not phased by the murders...very peculiar about evidence...what does that mean?" Bill absent-mindedly asked.

Simon answered: "He uses the same knife every time, and he doesn't leave so much as a finger print." There was a brief pause and a shuffling of papers before he added, "It may also be wise to tell you that none of the victims show signs of a struggle."

"So, they were either willing or drugged. Hm." Bill pondered on something deeply. Something was nagging at him. There was something he'd missed. He scanned over the papers again, shuffling madly backwards through the black, type-set ink.

_Something is telling me it's the former._

_Something is telling me that they were...seduced into being killed._

These thoughts caught Bill off guard. He squinted his eyes, as if it would make something clearer for him. But it did nothing. The ink on the pages in front of him, in fact, appeared even more blurry and non-sensical than before. He widened his pale brown eyes a little instead. He looked up through them, seemingly staring into Simon's very soul.

"They were drawn into being killed." He affirmed to both himself and the people present aloud, "From these reports, I think that someone made the victims want to be killed. Almost as if...they liked it."

"Like, Sado-masochism?"

"Maybe." Bill sighed, "But I'm just a journo. What do you expect me to think? My mind automatically goes to the most publicly grotesque thing and makes it a reality, Simon. That's just what I'm trained to do." He slid the papers back on the desk. Simon picked them back up, brushed them off, and was about to replace them in their proper place before Bill shot up straight in his seat. "Wait."

"Hm?" Simon puzzled, freezing where he was.

"Can I borrow those?" Bill asked, "I'll bring them back before I turn in, promise."

"Yeah." Simon replied, handing them back over, "Just be careful not to lose them."

"Absolutely."

Maurice groaned in mock boredom. "Ugh!" He exclaimed, "Can we just get going?! This is so laaaaame."

Bill stood up and gave Simon a courteous nod before heading out. "Sure. Thanks, Douglass."

"No problem."

* * *

Next was a series of events that slightly resembled a motion-picture montage of clueless people taking pictures of random things. Bill, trained and at-the-ready whenever the moment arose, could set up that hulk of a camera in less than a minute, aim, and take the shot. He took pictures of everything at the crime scenes, even going to the lengths of following some suspicious figures home, sometimes even risking confronting the fellows. Mostly, he restricted this 'privilege' to the street girls who knew Mary Ann Nichols. Another thing about Bill: For some reason anyone would talk to him without even hesitating. Maurice watched on in awe as he struck up conversation with total strangers in the back-alleys of Whitechapel. Sometimes, the foreigner would think to himself that Bill might be the most interesting man in the world.

As for the young American, he was stuck hiding behind newspapers and shades he'd brought with him, trying to pretend to be a real spy, or whatever he called it. Bill humored him and sent him doing odd bits and ends every now and then. Like: Go dive in that garbage can and look for clues. Or: stand behind that guy and make a peace sign so I can reference how tall he is later.

Of course, none of these tasks actually served any solid purpose, but Maurice was too dense to realize that. Therefore, he enjoyed it most thoroughly. With or without the 'aid' or Maurice, however, at the end of the day, Bill's quest for the truth using still photos still came out fruitless.

Then, out of nowhere, on September 8th, nearly a week and a half after Mary, Annie Chapman was murdered. Bill was one of the first journalists on sight, what with his police clearance. He took multiple photos of the body while Maurice threw up in the corner. Later, after curing the shots, he sat at the dining room table in their apartment at nearly two in the morning and tried not to tear his hair out as he puzzled over the evidence. He'd helped solve a murder case before, but nothing like this. Nothing on this scale. The brown-haired, green-eyed boy was rapidly starting to give up hope. Maybe this case was just impossible. Maybe the police wouldn't even solve it.

He shuffled the pictures and the papers around again, lining Mary's and Annie's reports up side-by-side. First, the photographs. The wounds were exactly the same...but, not on the abdomen. The killer was learning, of this Bill was certain. This time, the cuts near the stomach were more precise. They had made less of a mess of things...and even had managed to remove the uterus and carry it away from the crime scene. As to where, no one had figured out yet. Bill snorted in contempt and moved on.

he looked over the case reports again. Both girls had brown eyes, and a history in prostitution, naturally. That couldn't really be counted as a link between the two. Bill had seen plenty of girls around London with brown eyes. Sure, choosing a prostitute with brown eyes was a bit more picky, but maybe it was just a preference for whatever happened prior to the murder. Maybe the guy just had a fancy for girls with brown eyes. Or, maybe it was just a coincidence. Who really knew these things anyway until he was caught?

The next thing Bill looked at were the dates. He leaned forward on his palms a bit, fighting back sleep with each slow thought turning through his brain. If this kept up much longer, he'd have to go out and buy a cup of coffee from the convenience place across the street.

"The eight...the Thirty-first...Eight days...apart..." Bill said aloud, more to keep himself up than to reinforce anything.

The eight of September and the thirty-first of August. What did those dates have in common? He suddenly remembered a conversation he and Jack had in the back of his mind about two days prior. Something about...a party in the rich part of town...the Yard had been paid off as personal security. The office and the criminally active areas would be drained of resources. It was the season, or at least near the end of it; the time when everyone visiting for the summer would throw the wildest and best parties at their hoighty-toighty mansions. The thought struck Bill against a mental stop-sign.

The police.

That's what he had missed earlier. The fact that police were being drained into less important duties had never been released to the public. He'd just assumed that since Jack had told him that everyone knew. But Jack worked with the yard on a daily basis, of course he'd know that kind of stuff. And everyone and their mother knew that Jack couldn't keep a secret.

"Oh, bloody hell." Bill muttered, burying his face into his hands upon the grisly realization of it, "The ripper is part of the force..."

* * *

"What makes you think that?" Detective Brimmly indignantly snorted, "He can't be one of us."

Bill began to wrinkle the edges of the reports nervously and angrily between his fingers, pressing his lips into a firm line. "The dates and timing is too perfect." He insisted, "There's no other way. He's either a part of your task force or very close with someone who is."

"I live alone." Simon commented worriedly, "And my parents live in Austria with my little sister."

"I'm not saying it was you." Bill scoffed at Simon, "Lord knows you couldn't hurt a bloody fly."

"Still, if what you're saying is true, Bill," Ralph asserted, taking on the leaderly tone that got him to where he was now, "We need to interview most everyone. If they don't have an alibi, then they're a suspect. That includes me, and it includes all of you."

"Where's Maurice?" Jack asked instinctively, pointing out the obvious lack of stupidity that emanated throughout the room. Simon and Ralph glanced around; both were familiar with all of Jack's wacky roommates, as they visited the station often, whether on their own terms or not.

"He's sleeping." Bill commented drily, "I asked for his help yesterday and I may have just found his weak spot. Physical labor apparently wears him out."

"Oh." Jack sighed, then added sarcastically, "That's a damn shame."

"Sure is." Bill grinned.

"Hey, let's focus." Ralph snapped them back to attention. Simon pulled out a notepad and pen and started jotting something down. Detective Brimmly turned to the auburn-haired boy and started: "Alright, Simon. We're going to need a full list of alibis and people of interest. Go ahead and put me, you, Jack, Bill, Maurice and Roger down. You might as well put Rob on there too." Ralph added the last part as a courtesy. Since they were including Jack's roommates in the search, they might as well include his. But he highly doubted Robert committed any crime. Hell, Robert wouldn't even touch the doorknob without lathering it in hand soap and putting on gardening gloves.

"Sir, I was working late shifts both of those nights." Simon said mid-scribble, "Can I go ahead and put that down as my alibi?"

"Sure." Ralph waved off, "That finished you. I can witness to that, and so can Jack and the chief of police. How about you, Jack?"

Jack paced back a few steps and put his hands on his hips. Bill rolled his eyes. "Huh, why me?" Jack shouted, "You think I'm the killer? Why do I have to have an alibi?!"

"Everyone does, Jack." Ralph squinted and drew in a deep breath, leaning heavily against the windowsill. Outside, it was nice and sunny out. However, the window only looked out to an alley, so it was hard to tell whether or not the sky was actually blue. A smarter person could deduce that it was, while a less perceptive person might have to go outside and check for himself. "Please, just tell us what you were doing."

Jack shrugged and walked towards the door, backing out of the room slowly. "I don't know. I don't remember." He answered nonchalantly, "Look, I gotta go. See you later when we re-group."

"So you have no alibi?!" Ralph shouted to him as he walked away.

"Yeah, sure!" Jack called back. The little bell at the top of the door rang as Jack walked out of the station, and Ralph winced as the door slammed. The ginger could be pretty emotional sometimes. The detective had to try hard to keep things in order when they got out of hand, especially with him. Still, could Jack be the ripper? It was possible...unfortunately, since Merridew didn't have an alibi, Ralph would have to look into it whether he wanted to or not. Ralph pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. This was going pretty badly.

"Maurice and Roger were at...a thing...that night." Bill broke in, "I can witness to the fact that they are not the killers."

"What thing-"

Right on time, the door chimed again, but this time violently. There was a crack as it slammed against the wall, then swung back into its resting place. Simon, Ralph and Bill snapped up, at full attention now. There was a slight rapping on the ornately-carved door-frame. A familiar black-haired face peered into the room with a grisly, jagged smile.

"Why, hello there!" He greeted, all-too-cheerfully. "I just saw Jack on the street, said you guys were looking for some testimonies. Am I late? I'd hate to disappoint."

"Roger Wirrick." Simon announced.

"That would be me." The black-haired man agreed, waving with his fingers rather than with his full hand. Ralph nodded back and gestured him in.

"Your timing couldn't be more perfect." He commended.

Bill spoke up next. "We're a little short on time as of now, Roger." He said, "So, let's cut right to the chase. Could you explain what you and Maurice were...doing...the nights of the murders."

Roger seated himself nearly on top of Bill, on the armrest of his chair, and smiled again. The young reporter grimaced and inched out of the way, uncomfortable with any human contact, or even people coming close to him. Sensing this, Roger 'accidently' slipped off his perch and fell into Bill's lap. Bill let out a muffled squeak and pushed Roger off, retreating behind the desk with Simon.

"I was doing a thing." Roger answered.

"What thing?" Ralph Brimmly asked, a little peeved by Wirrick's lack of respect in their presence.

"If I told you," Roger explained, "You'd arrest Maurice and I both."

"Was it murder?" Simon sighed, exasperated. Roger fixed him with a bright, red-eyed stare. Simon suppressed the urge to back away like Bill had. For some reason, Roger was very...off-putting.

"No. It was not murder."

"Tell you what," Ralph offered wearily, "If you jut tell me what you were doing and it wasn't murder or theft, I'll pretend I never heard it. It's off the record, I just want you testimony for my memory, just to be sure."

Bill and Roger exchanged a glance. The former shrugged apathetically and the latter closed his red eyes in undetermined bliss.

"We were in the outer ring, near the strip club." Roger laughed, as if something struck a chord in the deep recesses of his bottomless-pit of a heart, and added, "Racing carriages."

"What in the bloody hell." Simon muttered, looking up from his steno pad and pen. "What did you all expect to accomplish with that?"

"It's a good time." Roger admitted, not ashamed in the least, "There's gambling, girls and fast horses. Jack even shows sometimes. You should all come too. There's another one on the 30th, right before the end of the Season, and there's another on the ninth of November, to celebrate all those damn tourists leaving the city. That one's going to be fun. I heard Finni is bringing some drinks with him imported from Germany."

"Oh." Ralph puzzled over the information he had just received. These things sounded pretty extravagant. He wondered why there wasn't any news of them before, seeing as how they weren't at all trying to hide them. Apparently, him and Bill were on the same wavelength.

"Do any other people on the force show up?" The reporter queried.

"Yeah," Roger chuckled, "What do you think we are, stupid? Of course, they don't care what we do, because enjoy it themselves. They're loud-mouths too once they're drunk."

This time, it was Bill and Ralph that exchanged a glance.

There was going to be another murder on the thirtieth.

"Next time you plan on going to one of these...races, can you give us a warning? I'd like to check it out." Ralph said.

"Sure thing, officer, as long as you swear not to bust us." Roger allowed, "I'll tell the lads."

"Thanks, Roger." Ralph nodded to him, giving him permission to check out, "You can go now."

"No problem."

There was another door-chime, this time, softer. Roger twisted to face the entry-way and cocked his neck in curiousity. Bill as well, looked to the door. Neither of them had heard of the next visitor.

When she walked in, Roger laughed, stood up, and sauntered out of the room. "I think I've overstayed my welcome, chaps!" He cheered dubiously, "I'd never thought I'd see the day when the Yard hired women to solve cases for them! I must be drunk!"

Scarlet stared after him indignantly as he practically skipped out. She huffed and turned back to the rest of the boys.

"You could have at least worn something less...revealing...to your occupation." Ralph stammered, glancing over her quickly and trying not to be _too_ perverted at the same time. He didn't want to seem like he was ogling her. That would give the Yard a bad reputation, in the least. However, it was hard not to stare...Scarlet, their new recon and witness, was wearing nothing but a gorgeously-stitched corset and a pair of half-knee-length, skin-tight black 'shorts'. Then, of course, there were the fishnets hooked onto the shorts, and the high-top leather boots. But those were...those were...Ralph felt his mind going to places he'd rather not visit, and he shook his head to clear it. Scarlet was the first to break the stunned silence.

"I gotta be ready for anything, aye?" She winked at them. The only one who was seemingly unphased was Simon. He took up conversation without missing a beat.

"Hullo, Scarlet!" He laughed, "It's nice to see you! How's your investigation been?"

"Well, my sister's murder is still running about out there," She responded bitterly, "So, I'd say it was going pretty badly."

"Oh, well..." Simon turned to Bill and smiled, "Uh, I forgot, you two haven't met. Bill, this is Scarlet, and Scarlet, this is Bill. Since you two are both working on the case now, you might get to know each other a bit better."

"No thanks." Scarlet said, grimacing, "Not my type...unless...he's got money."

"No!" Bill stammered, snapping out of his trance, "I'm a free-lance reporter, and I plan to stay that way!" He laughed. Scarlet smiled.

"I think we're going to be good friends, Bill." She smirked, "Just don't let it go to your brain too much."

"Definetly not."

"Now that all introductions are out of the way," Ralph interrupted, "Let's get to it. Scarlet, we're heading out tonight after Jack gets back...there's something I need to check out, and you need to hear it too, just not hear. Perhaps the more pressing matter at hand..." He paused, slamming his fist on the table. The reports and photos that had previously rested there jumped slightly, as with the people around the desk. Detective Brimmly glanced up from under his hat. A hard resolve had formed in his china-blue eyes. "We now have less than a month to solve this case."

"Why?" She asked, startled by the uncanny urgency.

"Because." Bill and Ralph said at the same time. Ralph let Bill continue without him. "The next murder happens on September 30th."

* * *

"What happened next?!" The boy insisted, "Where did detective Brimmly and Scarlet go?! Did they catch the killer?! Did they da, did they?!"

The man chuckled heartily, the grin lines in his face becoming more prominent. "Hold your horses, son." He told the child, "I'm getting there. We gotta do this in order, or else it wouldn't make sense."

"Yeah..." The boy admitted, "I guess so..."

"Now, then..." The man sighed, jogging his memory for their place in the tale, "Where was I...where was I...Oh, yes! I was just about to tell you more about Simon Douglass, and what happened when the big-boys where away...you ready?"

"Yes, ser!" The child adamantly said.

"Alright." The man started up again, "It was about nine o'clock in the evening when Jack got back, and Scarlet, Ralph and he headed out, leaving Simon all by himself in the empty police station..."

* * *

**Yo! Sorry for not updating this chapter sooner...it was a really long one, as you can plainly see, especially for me! This may be the longest chapter I've ever written...**

**Anyway, two more chapters! I'm really enjoying these short little stories! I'm working on another one on the side, but I'm not going to post it until I finish it. Also, I'm looking forward to my first Saturday with a new computer! UPDATES ON OLDER STORIES, YAY!  
I might be the only one excited about that...**

**_Anyway_ anyway, thanks to Riveras for your review! I very much appreciate that you love my story...it's been in my head for a while, and I just now figured I'd write it to get back into the swing of things! I'm figuring out that I'm more outta shape than I thought...phew!'**

**Thanks to all of you who read as well! I'm thankful that anyone at all gets to see these! I mean, without a website like this...I'd be...very bored. And also, I wouldn't be able to share my work with awesome people like you! So, thanks!  
**

**THANKS FOR READING! please review...meh. If you want...AND WRITE YA LATER!**


	4. Private Simon Douglass

**WARNING: Graphic chapter is graphic. Please be warned, there is reference to stuff that happens and stuff...not explicitly listed...and blood...and kissing, I guess? Anyway, just wanted to be safe and warn you.**

**So, uh, happy reading.**

***Smiles***

* * *

CLUE AND NOTE

RECORD FOUR: Private Simon Douglass

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when Jack got back, and Scarlet, Ralph and he headed out, leaving Simon all by himself in the empty police station. The young private scribbled rhythmically on his little notepad, copying down any vital information on the case he might need on the go. It was unusually quiet in the station, with only the little desktop light he'd switched on illuminating the near-darkness. Simon used this time to meditate on his thoughts. What was he doing on the force anyway? He gagged at the sight of blood, had to stay away from bodies...

Sighing, he rested his head in his hands and gave his eyes a moments rest. These late nights were wearing down on him. Yet again, he was stuck working late shifts until Jack, Ralph, Bill and scarlet got back. Simon was exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that he didn't even hear the door chime as it opened. The young private had dozed off, slipping into a brief unconsciousness.

The unwelcome guest sat down in the chair and watched. They laughed quietly, and in their hands a sliver crescent of reflective metal danced in the moonlight.

silently, the Ripper switched off the light.

* * *

"Where the bloody hell did Bill go?!" Jack shouted to Ralph above the clamor of the crowd, trying to shoulder his way over to the blonde through the warm, drunk bodies of the patrons on the floor, "And Scarlet?!"

"I don't know!" Ralph responded, also in a shout, "I saw Scarlet just a minute ago! She was headed towards the bar...but I don't think Bill even came with us!"

"Great!" Jack spat.

"My thoughts exactly!" Ralph Brimmly agreed curtly, nodding towards the mostly-empty smoking room, "Let's go over there! I can't stand all these people! Plus, I haven't told you why we're here yet!"

"Good thinking!" The red-head agreed loudly. The two detectives squirmed their way out of the writhing mass of people and dancing drunkards and half-fell into the foggy smoking chamber. They both coughed violently, straightening themselves out. Ralph pulled the collar of his cream button-down shirt over his mouth and nose to keep out most of the smog. Jack observed, but out of his self-inflicting pride, would not do the same. He braved the smoke without coverings. "Now, what are we doing here?" He asked, slightly peeved.

"Watching." Ralph said, muffled by the cream-colored fabric.

"For what?" Jack sneered, "You think that the Ripper is just gonna waltz up to the bar and order a couple'a drinks, then kill someone right here?"

"No." Ralph shook his head, crushing his eyes closed for a long moment to clear them of the nauseous debris floating about in the smoke room. "We're not watching for the Ripper. I wanna watch Scarlet. That's why I was wondering where she was, I don't want her to know."

"Why are we watching Scarlet?" Jack asked, puzzled for once.

"Because, she...I don't know, she's just kind of suspicious. You never know, nobody said that the killer had to be a male." The detective turned away from Jack and stood on his tips toes, trying to peer through the shivering crowd. There was no sign of her anywhere on the dance floor, nor on the stage...though, Ralph had loaned her his khaki coat so that she wouldn't be as suspicious, so she probably wouldn't be there anyway. He glanced towards the bar. Ah, there. Scarlet was sitting at the round-about, streamline bar ordering drinks. He should've known. Someone in a black, high-collar trench and matching fedora took the empty seat next to her, and they started to strike up a conversation. Eventually, it turned even stranger as they leaned in and spoke in whispers into each others eager ears, moving closer...

"That's why the prostitute was a bad idea..." Ralph muttered. Jack made a non-committal grunt that could be interpreted as either an 'I agree' or a 'screw you'. Both seemed acceptable enough for the blonde, because he easily ignored the other detective and turned away. "I think we should go. She seems pretty clear. Plus, I don't think she would've murdered her sister like that. It doesn't seem like her."

"Yeah, but what's she doing talking to Roger like that?" Jack snorted. Ralph started in surprise, turning back to the scene at the bar.

"That's Wirrick?" He asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, I'd know that hat anywhere. It used to have a feather and a ribbon on it, but he insisted on tearing it off." Jack explained, "He said it looked too suspicious or something like that, I don't know. Apparently he wears it to those horse races he goes to on weekends."

"Yeah, he told me about those." Ralph grimaced. Jack Merridew chuckled, then choked after inhaling a lung-full of smog.

"Let's just get out of here." He corrected, "I can't stand this place."

"Me neither." Ralph shook his head, glancing one last time at Scarlet and Roger before heading back through the crowd. "I'll ask Bill to retrieve _her_ for us later. Seems like she's busy anyway."

* * *

Scarlet leaned in close to the bartender, pointing at this and that and whatever else she pleased. She had to admit, the Yard paid well for information, even the most trivial of things. With her new-earned pounds and pence, she'd be at this bar all night. Good thing she'd ditched those two detectives at the entrance. She was getting well-sick of their company.

"Something strong." A familiar, yet alien, voice next to her ordered to a different bar-boy, "Something that'll knock me off my feet but still keep me up, you know?"

"I recommend the Cotswold." She offered, turning to the man seated next to her on the stool, "It's great. Strong too, even if you're used to it." She took in this stranger, lapping hungrily out his outfit with her ivy-green eyes. The black hat he wore shadowed his eyes, and his long black coat made him pitiable in the heat of the bar. On the stage, another round of performers started their routine. Tipping up his hat, the man grinned at Scarlet through scornful red eyes.

"I'll take that, then." He told the bar-tend, without even turning to him. Scarlet snapped her fingers and pulled her drink close to her as it was set on the counter, swinging around to face the now recognizable face. Next to her, Roger shrugged off his jacket to reveal a pinstripe button-down and a pair of charcoal-grey pants. He smiled mockingly.

"You're that guy from the station." Scarlet smirked with one side of her lips, pressing them into an even and attractive line, "The one who walked out. Sorry, but I can't remember your name..."

"It's Roger Wirrick." He jokingly did a little bow, still looking rather mocking, "And who might you be, miss? The hired prostitute, I presume?"

"Where'd you hear that?" Scarlet gasped in a show of dismay. _Damn,_ she thought, what good acting. _I should've gone into show-business. Been in one of those new moving-picture films_. Roger, however, smiled wider. He seemed rather unconvinced of her performance.

"Don't play dumb, little lady." He leaned back while speaking, crossing his arms and trying to appear nonchalant. This, however, just came off as extremely cheesy. "Everyone knows that the best-looking women go into that kind of business."

"And how would you know that?" Scarlet murmured around the straw of her beverage. Roger leaned back in, closer. She didn't move, her teeth and tongue playing with her brightly-colored straw and her eyes playing with Roger's clothing still.

"Because it makes the most money." He responded, lowering his voice to a whisper in the crowd, trailing his thing fingers up her chin. She stopped smiling. She let go of the straw, letting it float to the edge of her glass. "Especially for Gorgeous, Green-eyed gals like you."

"...I have to go." Scarlet plastered her smile back on, daring and sinister, a challenge to the person it was directed at. She was having fun. This Roger...he was _fun_. "My roommates are out of town, and I have to lock up, it seems."

She had no roommates. Yet another challenge. Roger's glass was set on the table, but he ignored it, forcing himself closer to Scarlet in the already cramped space of the bar. Their legs grazed each others, their breathing air was shared.

"Oh, you shouldn't lie to me, madam." He pressed the words into the small space, making both of them want more. "But it is dangerous out at this time of night, and I'd be honored-"

"-Escort me home." Scarlet said, demanding, wanting more of his air, his skin. Once again, her eyes and her mind played with his clothes, but in a way she hadn't before. _So quick_, she thought, _he reeled me in so quick, I would've never thought..._

_This was too easy,_ Roger grinned to himself in the shadows of their pressed-together foreheads, _how fun._

_How very fun._

* * *

"Oh, how very fun!" Jack fumed, stomping his foot in anger, "Bill! Get your arse over here! We were looking all over creation for you! You were supposed to come with us to the bar!"

The flat-haired reporter looked up from whatever he'd been photographing in the darkened alley boredly, sighing at Jack's indifference to his important investigation work. Quickly, he pressed his billow-camera back into its case and hauled it under his arm, walking to where Jack and Ralph were waiting under the lamp-light of the road.

"Was I?" he asked, "I wasn't aware."

"Smart-arse." Jack spat, "What in the bloody hell were you doing in there?"

"There was a blood stain." Bill said, "I was taking a picture for future reference. It looks pretty fresh too."

Ralph jolted for the second time that night. What had happened? They'd finally made a break-through on the case, and then a whole Pandora's Box full of weird is unleashed...He ran a hand through his light-blonde hair and closed his eyes, fighting back a scream. This whole thing was so frustrating...sometimes, he just wanted to give up.

"Show me." He breathed out, "Show me, show me."

"Sorry, detective." Bill apologized sincerely.

"Hey, why does he get an apology?!" Jack yelled. His outburst was ignored, however. Scurrying, he caught up to his two co-workers, bent over by the slick stain in the shadows. There was something odd about it...something off. Tentatively, detective Brimmly trailed his finger in the liquid, dipping and swirling them through the depths of the darkness. He brought them, sticky and wet, up to his nose and sniffed. Rust and Seawater. Salty. Blood. He squinted harshly at the shape on the stones, trying to clear out the night and make whatever it was clearer. Nothing. Then, he got an idea. His head snapped to Bill.

"Bill," He demanded, "Set up your camera and snap a picture. The light will make it easier to see for a moment."

"Ser," Jack interrupted from the side, "I brought an electric torch with me. It's always in my pocket."

"Oh. That helps." Ralph corrected nervously, jittering for whatever was drawn in blood directly in front of him, "Never mind, Bill. Thanks anyway."

"I didn't really do anything, but you're welcome." Bill frowned, unnoticeable in the shadows. Jack switched on his torch, and it flickered dimly to life. It didn't provide that much light, but it was enough to see by. "Wow." Bill broke in.

"Oh my God." Ralph stumbled with his words, unable to form a comprehensive thought. The only thing that was racing through his mind was: Simon's at the station, dear Lord, please let him be okay. Simon's at the station...Dear Lord...please...

"It's an arrow." Jack said aloud, grim, "And it's pointing towards the station."

* * *

"It's a nice place you've got here." Roger commented vibrantly from where he was perching on Scarlet's couch's armrest. She turned to him shakily. Even with all of her other...clients...she'd never seen someone look so unnatural in such a normal place. It was completely off-putting, but at the same time...she liked him there. Scarlet studied Roger's features, his pin-prick smirk, his shimmering black hair that fell in front of his eyes, every strand of it, every highlight cast by the damp lamp-light. She shivered. Roger caught sight of this and his smirk pulled upwards, finding a natural place on his pale skin. "I can't say that I expected it."

"It was cheap." She breathed. Her fingers caught the edge of her doorknob and Scarlet slowly turned it open, pressing her shaking finger-tips into the rough wood, pushing so that it would open. She backed in. Leaping up, Roger swiftly strode over and did the same to Scarlet, entwining himself with her, bringing her closer, lips to her ear.

"The landlord?" He queried gently.

"..."

"I thought so. I have to say, Miss Scarlet," He smiled audibly, "I like your style."

* * *

Ralph was a blur in the dark alleys, stumbling blindly over garbage dumped there and cobblestone walls and once even a guard dog. Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He should have never left Simon alone in the station, especially when he knew that the chief was turning in early! What the bloody hell was he thinking?! Ralph gasped, trying to draw more air into his parched lungs.

"Ralph!" Jack shouted from somewhere behind him, indiscernible from the white noise pounding in his ears, "Come on! Come back! We have to stay together! What are you planning on doing by yourself?!"

"Detective!" Bill echoed.

the blonde turned on a heel, backpedaled, trying to steady himself while walking backwards. He tripped a little, then screamed back: "You'll have to catch up, then!"

As if it were a game.

A game...

the notion struck him as odd.

Panting and worn-over with sweat and smoke, Ralph kicked down the front door of the Yard station when he arrived, and half-sprinted, half-stumbled into the case room.

"Simon!"

* * *

Roger pulled away suddenly, leaning back against the nearest surface in Scarlet's bedroom-which just happened to be her dresser-and feigning disgust and disinterest. He laughed wildly to himself.

"What's so funny?" Scarlet demanded, out of breath even though she hadn't even done anything.

"Just this whole deal." He responded, nearly drunk with his own desires, twirling a finger through the air, "This whole deal..."

"..." Scarlet thought for a moment. Was he referring to the fact that she was actually doing this for her own personal pleasure than for money, or the fact that they had just met twenty minutes ago? She might never know.

Once again, she blinked her eyes and Roger was on top of her, skin hot where he touched her face, lips moving beneath her own. Her hands worked at his shirt buttons, the same ones that her mind had played with earlier. Except, now it was real.

And, to both of them it may have been _just a game_, but at that moment it felt incredibly

_Real._

* * *

Simon.

Simon.

Simon.

The same thought ran on over-drive in Ralph's shell-shocked brain, making him reel into the bookshelves, slip on the books that had been thrown on the floor and lathered in blood, and try to make sense at what he was seeing. Any sense at all. Anything to grasp onto.

"Simon..." He whispered, "Simon, I'm so sorry..."

Jack and Bill rushed onto the scene a moment later, also gasping for breath and sweaty from pursuing Ralph on his mad sprint through the city's darker recesses. They stopped in their tracks when they saw it. Ralph turned to them, ghostly pale, looking even a bit green.

Across the spattered floor and draped over the newly-painted desk, the body of Simon stared. Bill walked closer and studied his glassy reflection in the wide, now fish-like eyes. He took a picture, and he left.

* * *

**Quick update is quick~~**

**But, hey! Guess what tomorrow is? That's right, updating day! Tomorrow night is the night! *Does a happy dance* Finally, Epic PArty Time and Alice and all that other crap...will be updated! I'm looking forward to it at least...**

**Anyway, only one more chapter! DuNDunDUN**

**Who do you think is the killer?**

**I know who it is...mwahahaha.**

**Alright. That's enough of that. Thanks for reading, and please review if you have the time!**

**WRITE YA LATER!**


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